Studying Syntax
by pale-jonquil
Summary: Hopeless romantic - or maybe just hopeless - single guy Arthur Kirkland waits for "the One" in the big city while getting by with a little help from his friends, tell-it-like-it-is Kiku and lovable potty mouth Gilbert. Human AU very loosely based off of "How I Met Your Mother."


**Studying Syntax**

.

Another stop, another screeching jolt.

It's going to be yet another long ride home on the Underground this evening, so Arthur settles into his seat, opens this evening's rag, and very pointedly makes a show to his fellow travelers of flicking past the Lifestyles section.

And then, ever so carefully, and thinking himself quite Bond-like, he surreptitiously turns _back_ to the Lifestyles section.

_To the girl with the green headphones always waiting for the Mile End station to open first thing in the morning —_ _fancy a chat? Yours, the chap with the blue headphones._

Arthur raises an eyebrow at that, silently judging.

_Dear boy I saw reading 50 Shades of Grey on your mobile whilst the Bakerloo line was delayed last Monday,_ another writes, _yes, I saw you, but I don't mind, I think you're fit and am willing to overlook your horrid taste in reading material. x, the girl who laughed but pretended it was a coughing fit._

Arthur scoffs and rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner. He's never been in love before, but he is in love with the _idea_ of love (the hope and the quivering expectation and the ravenous _yearning_ for it) and holds very strong opinions on the subject.

And it's almost _offensive,_ really, this notion you could find the one person, across all space and time and distance, you were meant to be with on the _Tube,_ of all places. (This loud, dirty, smelly Tube he loves so much.)

_That simply won't do at all,_ Arthur thinks with a shudder. _What a horrible story it would be to tell your children._

* * *

"It's all overrated and it's _bullshit,"_ Gilbert slurs one drunken evening to Arthur as they man their regular booth in their regular pub. "And you can go tell _love_ and _marriage_ I said so."

Gilbert sniffs and rubs his nose.

"I ain't afraid of them," he mutters, as though love and marriage were tangible entities trying to pick a fight with him.

But as with all Gilbert's pub brawls, one of two things always happens: Either Arthur steps in and helps him finish it in spectacular fashion, or he talks their way out of it.

"I don't think it would be so bad, really," he offers, squinting off into the distance, feeling profound in a very simple, very fuzzy sort of way, "if you were married to the right person."

"Pfft, _whatever."_ Gilbert jerks his arms, trying (and failing) to readjust his jacket about his shoulders. "It's ball and chain and _denial_ no matter who you end up with, kid."

They've been friends for years — they met in this very pub, in fact — but Gilbert doesn't talk about his past very much. Sometimes Arthur wonders why that is, but on nights like tonight, he thinks he has his answer.

Maybe love and marriage _did_ pick a fight with Gilbert, and maybe he lost. And that's the saddest thing in the world, Arthur realizes through the child-like clarity granted him from the beer, because Gilbert never holds back in a fight.

* * *

Another stop, another screeching jolt, and, oh, look: Yet another story about a footballer divorcing his pretty wife.

Now, Arthur is entirely sensible of the fact he doesn't know both sides of the story, but whenever he reads about something like this, he always sides with the jilted wife. And quite a lovely lady she is, too.

_Is the man completely blind? _Arthur wonders. _Did he not know how lucky he was? And then to go and cop off with some other lady. The fool never deserved his wife in the first place._

Arthur frequently despairs.

* * *

Don't mistake him — Arthur doesn't despair over the mortals from some lofty perch high atop Mount Olympus. Though he is proudly English and unrepentantly old-fashioned, he knows himself and his flaws too well to ever think to call himself a gentleman.

There is a part of him, however, who will always be the lad who sat and watched his mother fall apart after her husband left her.

He's never been particularly good at anything (except reading, and he was lucky enough to turn his beloved hobby into a job as a copy editor) and he's never been as accomplished as his older brothers (Ian is an influential banker; Oliver owns a popular pub and mingles with celebrities; Owen wanders the earth and films travel documentaries), but he was his mother's favorite child, the one she relied on throughout her darkest days.

Arthur, a good reader but an even better listener, held her hand on the days she couldn't even find the will to crawl out of bed. On the days she wouldn't eat, he was at least able to get her to drink some water, and during the nights she couldn't sleep, he'd stay up late (and sleep through science class the next day at school) to read her stories from his books.

Arthur knows he's no gentleman. But he's come to terms with this, because he _does_ have a healthy respect for women, and he simply can't abide foolish, _foolish_ men.

* * *

Another stop, another screeching jolt, and Arthur turns to the Lifestyles section for a third time.

Certainly he's not hoping to see someone make a reference to him — oh, no. No, no, no. It's just that on the off-chance someone _did_ happen to make an anonymous reference to him, well — of _course_ he'd want to know.

Wouldn't everyone?

* * *

It could happen. Couldn't it?

He loves his mother (who lives with her sister, his eccentric Aunt Gwen, in Winchester these days) but is getting tired of her always asking in her soft, quiet voice if he's found anyone yet, because he's 28 now and will be 30 soon ("I slept through science, mum, not maths") and he was always _such a sweet boy,_ and he _really does deserve_ a nice girl.

He knows it comes from a good place in her gentle heart, knows that for whatever reason he's her favorite, but sometimes he really does envy the privacy afforded to his brothers.

Because sometimes he could punch a wall and _scream,_ it's all so insufferably frustrating. How to explain to his mum that it's not for lack of trying, or lack of looking — he _tries_ and, by God, he _looks._ And a few times he's even touched, but that only left him feeling incredibly empty and vaguely ill the next morning.

And yet, for as much as he feels he could give up the search some days, others he thinks it really could happen. It could possibly —

_Maybe —_

Perhaps, if he's a very good boy and says his prayers every night and gives money to the homeless and helps little old ladies with their groceries —

Maybe (maybe?) it could even happen to him.

_Just wait for me,_ _wherever and whoever you are, _he thinks, heaving such a great sigh without even realizing it that a few nearby passengers give him pitying looks. _I'll be there as soon as I possibly can. But you should know I'm waiting for you as well, Miss Whoever from Wherever, so if you'd like to hurry it up a bit, that would be brilliant._

Arthur catches a few of the pitying looks, answers them with a scowl, and angrily tosses the paper onto the seat across him.

* * *

Kiku, with his glasses, his music no one else had ever heard of, and his ability to so unselfconsciously be _himself,_ was always the student Arthur wished he was at university.

He's also always been the serious, grounded foil to Arthur's daydreaming and wistfulness.

"I think the chances of meeting _the one_ are infinitesimally small," Kiku tells him as they eat lunch together one afternoon in the park not far from either of their workplaces.

Arthur rolls his eyes. This isn't helping, but at least Kiku isn't jaded. On the contrary — he only speaks objectively about something he has little interest in.

"But," Kiku continues, after finishing off the last of his rice, "I do not think the low possibility of it happening should stop you from looking, if that is what you truly desire in this life."

* * *

Another stop, another screeching jolt —

And the prettiest girl Arthur has ever seen hops on to the carriage and plops down in the empty seat next to him.

Now, Arthur is entirely sensible of the fact it's more than a tad ridiculous, this silly notion of boys with blue headphones and coughing girls finding love on the Tube.

Still, that doesn't stop him from immediately correcting his posture, straightening out his tie, checking his reflection in the window across from him to make sure his unruly hair isn't sticking up in odd directions.

Why should it? He's not hoping to _impress_ the girl.

But still — on the off-chance she looks his way, he wants to make sure she sees him at his best.

* * *

He sneaks several peaks at her from out the corner of his eye.

She must have gotten caught out in the rain — her clothes are soaking wet, her shoes make unfortunate _squish squash_ noises when she moves her toes, and her hair hangs wet and limp against her cheeks.

She looks exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that refuses to leave even after you head home from work, still clinging to your back like a sin. Arthur knows this feeling all too well and can easily recognize it in another.

All this, and she's _still_ the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

* * *

Another stop, another screeching jolt, and an elderly gentleman gingerly steps into the carriage.

The pretty girl immediately stands and gives up her seat for him, grabbing onto the pole in the center of the aisle; the man smiles and thanks her with a nod of his head.

Arthur immediately jumps up from his seat and latches on to the same pole as the girl.

"Miss — " He motions to his empty seat, offering it to her.

She looks up at him, a little surprised and a little unsure.

"Oh, no," she protests, shaking her head, "I couldn't — "

"Please, I insist," Arthur says, the bottom of his pinky finger brushing against the thumb of her hand and the corner of his mouth quirking up into something he hopes resembles a smile. (It doesn't, but he's trying, and he's so _tired_ sometimes of trying that it's worth mentioning.)

"Thank you!" she breathes, sitting down and gathering her purse into her lap. "That's very kind of you."

Arthur can only give her a curt nod in response and loops his arm around the pole, bracing himself against it.

Despite how interested in the girl he actually is, he makes a fine show of disinterestedly picking back up his paper, which had fallen to the floor amidst the mad dash of a new group of passengers, as though it was the first time he's seen it all evening.

He steals glances at her over the edge of the paper, and thinks of boys with headphones and coughing girls, and — well — he's one of them now, isn't he? Perhaps he shouldn't have been so hard on them earlier.

And as much as it's frowned upon, he wants so _badly_ to talk to her, to say something witty, but he can't think of a single blasted thing to say. Instead he only worries about whether or not he's got ink from the paper on his face.

She catches him glancing at her once. There's a tiny smile on her face, and she doesn't look so exhausted anymore.

* * *

Another stop, another screeching jolt, and it's just as Arthur is wondering if she normally takes this line at this time of day, and considering adding another zone to his Tube pass if it meant he could see her again, that she rises from her seat and makes to leave.

But not before she glances at him one last time and shyly smiles at him.

Arthur watches her go and flings the paper away again.

That's when something in the girl's seat catches his eye: A small, thin bit of plastic.

Recognition hits him instantly — it's the girl's Tube pass.

And without a moment's hesitation, he grabs the card, swings his bag behind him, rushes toward the doors and tumbles out of the train only just in time, the doors swinging shut behind him.

"Miss?" he calls out, and then realizes it's useless — the din from all the people bustling about will make it impossible for him to be heard.

Shuffling through the throng of people, all as tired and annoyed from the workday as he is, he tries to catch sight of the girl — the white hair ribbon around her wet hair, the navy dress with the white belt, the peach-colored shoes.

When he finally spots her, his heart leaps in relief, bucking against his ribs as though it would drag him toward to the girl against his will.

"Miss!" he cries, jogging up to her, his shoes clacking and echoing in the rapidly emptying hallway.

The girl stops and turns around, lifting her eyebrows at him in surprise.

"Yes?" she asks, recognizing him, but a bit wary.

"Is this yours?" he asks, holding out the card to her.

"Oh, my God!" she cries, taking it. "I can't believe I — thank you so, _so_ much!"

Arthur proudly beams (he's never been the hero before) and tells her it was no trouble at all.

The girl's cheeks turn pink and she covers her eyes with her free hand.

"I feel like such a ditz," she mutters.

"Ah — no, you shouldn't. It's happened to most people, I'm sure."

"Has it ever happened to you?" she suddenly asks, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

"Well," he slowly, truthfully answers, "no."

"Oh."

The girl's face falls, and she suddenly looks so impossibly _sad_ and exhausted all over again.

And Arthur finds he can't bear to see her this way after having once seen her smile.

"But," he tries, "I have found myself in _other_…erm, situations."

"Like what?"

He glances back behind him, down the corridor. He knows the next train will arrive any minute, and with it, a wild rush of unbearable new commuters.

"Walk with me?" he asks, gesturing ahead, and she doesn't hesitate to follow him.

"One time," he begins, turning toward her as they walk, "I wasn't paying attention and the carriage jerked quite unexpectedly, and as I hadn't thought to brace myself against anything, I quite unexpectedly found myself sitting on a strange, burly man's lap."

"Oh, no!" she exclaims, laughing.

"Oh, _yes."_

"But you're an expert now, right?" she asks, giving him a knowing smile.

"Well, I wouldn't say that," he sheepishly says. "I've lived in London for the past five years and still don't feel as though I've even begun to scratch the surface of this city yet."

"Can I ask where you're from originally?"

"From the country, but I moved here for my work."

"Me too!" she exclaims, as though they had been the only two people in the history of the world to ever move to the city for work, and Arthur finds himself utterly charmed. Of all the stories of all the people to be told in London, his isn't that unique, and hers probably isn't, either, but she's like a breath of fresh air — unaffected, artless, like the heroine of a novel he can't put down.

"I'm Marie," she says, extending her hand out to him, when they reach the top of the stairs leading out of the corridor.

_A pretty name for a pretty girl._

"Arthur," he says, taking her hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Arthur," she says, smiling so that it reaches her eyes. "I don't know how to thank you for giving me back my card, but — well, what if I bought you a cup of coffee, or some tea?"

Arthur blinks. "Really, there's no need — "

"I bet this wasn't even your stop, was it? And then I dragged you with me all the way up to the exit. It would really be the very least I could do. Please?"

Inexplicably, Arthur suddenly thinks of the new biography of Marlowe sitting on his bedside table, and of how his fingers have been itching to finally crack it open. And then he thinks of his rambunctious new Corgi puppy, and his old, diabetic cat, so set in her ways and more than a little jealous of the puppy.

He realizes he's thinking of these things, and not immediately accepting the girl's — Marie's — offer, because there'd be a certain kind of comfort in simply walking away and returning to all that tonight.

But Arthur read enough poetry and medieval romances at university (he was studying syntax, he said, _thank you very much)_ to know that faint heart never won fair lady, and maybe this fair lady before him is waiting for someone, too. Even if he's not the one she's waiting for, they can wait for their respective Mr. and Miss Whoever from Wherever together and at least keep each other company while they wait, can't they?

"Make it a half pint," he says, "and you've got yourself a deal."

She sighs loudly, relieved, and places a hand over her heart.

"I am _so glad_ you said that," she confesses, leaning toward him. "After the day _I've_ had, I need more than just a _half_ pint, let me tell you. At this point, I could drink an entire pub dry."

"Impressive," he smirks as they walk toward the exit gates. "Would you like some help with that endeavor? Everything that _could_ have gone wrong at my job today _did."_

"Wasn't it just one thing after another today? And then I got caught out in the rain — "

"Do you — " He abruptly stops walking. "Do you want to go home and change first, or — are you — ?"

"Oh, no, thank you, I'm fine," she says, smiling at him. "I'll dry off eventually, and this way we'll have more time to talk. But regardless of how our days have gone, I'm convinced it's nothing a good beer won't fix."

And now Arthur's getting giddy, because the only thing he loves more than old books and his pets and punk rock (and the way her eyes sparkle when she smiles) is a good beer.

_(Not him, never him,_ his brain chastises, but his heart is already leaps and bounds ahead of his brain.)

"Do you know any places we could get a good Belgian beer?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do. To be honest, even a bad Belgian beer is probably still one of the best you could get. Better at any rate than that cheap piss-water the Americans call beer, eh?"

She crows with laughter at that, and the sound of it makes him feel like he's done something right for once, makes him feel completely justified in not giving in to the temptation of another quiet, comfortable night at home alone.

* * *

One half pint turns into another, and then another, and Arthur ends up spending his entire evening talking with the pretty Belgian girl.

They share a plate of greasy pub food and she nicknames him Shakespeare after she catches him quoting it. She can't tell a joke to save her life; when she realizes she's ruined yet _another_ one halfway through, her nose crinkles as she laughs at herself.

The more time they spend together — the further under her spell he falls — he feels more like…well, himself.

She knows just how to play him, it seems, though there's no manipulation, no nefarious plot. Rather, she's playing him like a well-loved instrument, showing him off to his best advantage and, somehow, finding a sweet melody underneath he can't remember anyone else ever even bothering to believe was there in the first place.

* * *

At the end of the night she hands him a slip of paper.

"What is — oh. Is this — ?"

"It's my number," she clarifies, biting her lip. "If you want it, that is."

"I — yes." His eyes meet hers. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She blushes a furious shade of red.

"This is so awkward!" she says, giggling nervously. "But what if we made it easy on each other? If you call me on, say…Wednesday night, I promise I'll be home and I'll answer."

He clutches the paper in his hand, nods his head. "Right, then. Wednesday night it is."

She smiles at him one last time before turning and heading home.

"I'll be waiting for you!" she calls back to him with a wave.

And all Arthur can do is stare at her as she continues walking away, dumbfounded.

* * *

"Have I taught you _nothing?"_ Gilbert shrieks the next evening in their booth. "Do _not_ call her Wednesday or I will disown your ass _so fast."_

"But she told me to!" Arthur shrieks back, spreading his hands out before him, palms up.

"No," Gilbert says, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. _"No, no, no."_

He sighs heavily and drops his hand.

"You know, due to the serious nature of this situation, I'm going to go international on this one, and say _nein, non, nyet,_ because the entire world condemns this, Art."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Gil — "

"Do you really want to turn this into an international dispute? With NATO and bombs and shit? Because I don't care _what_ she said, dill weed, men the world over have always waited three days to call a woman. _Always."_

"Really," Arthur murmurs, wholly unimpressed.

"Yes. Even our ancestors waited three days before they sent out smoke signals to the babes in the loincloths." He takes a long gulp of his beer, finishes it, and slams the empty glass down on the table. "And if you don't like it, you can blame Jesus."

Arthur raises his eyebrows at that.

"He started the whole let's-wait-three-days-and-see-what-happens thing, and let's be real here — do you _really_ want to argue with Jesus? Worked out just fine for him."

"Oh, my God."

"_Exactly."_

* * *

"He said he's going to start writing about me on his blog," Arthur mentions to Kiku the next afternoon in the park. "Every Wednesday is going to be _Wanker Wednesday_ and he's going to use me as an example of how not to live your life."

"I wouldn't worry," Kiku reassures him. "All the other days of the week he uses _himself_ as an example of how not to live your life."

* * *

One date with Marie (it didn't start out as a date, she will clarify for him years later, but it ended up that way) turns into another, and then another, and one day she kisses him.

It's a short, quick kiss to thank him for bringing her flowers — barely worth mentioning, really, for all it made him stammer and blush.

But later that night she kisses him again — _really_ kisses him, long and slow and gentle, her hands holding his face — and his chest _burns._

It's a little frightening, because Arthur can already tell she's ruining him for anyone else, for any version of the future that doesn't involve her being part of his life.

* * *

Somehow she ends up agreeing to be his girl, and Arthur will never say he found love on the Tube, because that's just ridiculous.

Really, he found it one night in the corner of a non-descript pub, about halfway through his second Belgian beer.

* * *

The hardest thing he will ever have to do in his life is say goodbye to Marie when her work decides to call her back home after six months in England.

The first night she's gone isn't so bad, because Arthur can pretend she's only left to go back to her own flat for the night.

The next evening is when the gaping hole in his chest opens.

* * *

"Liz?"

"Yeah?"

"I miss him so much."

"Oh, babe, I'm so sorry. I know it's hard, but — what was that clanging noise?"

"…nothing."

"Marie, are you baking?"

"_No."_

"Sounds like pots and pans and _baking_ to me."

In the ensuing silence, Elizabeta wonders if perhaps she and Marie have been disconnected.

But then she hears it — a sobbing, a horrible, gut-wrenching _wailing._

"Babe, _please_ don't cry. Please?"

"I _hate_ my stupid job!"

"You don't hate your stupid job."

"Yes, I _do!"_

Elizabeta sighs. She knows nothing she has to say is really going to make her friend feel any better, but the trick is always to at least try.

"How long have you been baking?"

"Um…"

"Be honest."

"All day?"

"Oh, jeez. I'd better come over and help you eat it all, then."

* * *

Kiku and Gilbert rarely, if ever, agree on anything, but they will team up together if the need arises.

"You need to eat," Kiku tells Arthur, taking groceries out of plastic bags and arranging them on the kitchen counter. "I do not think Marie would enjoy dating a skeleton or a ghost."

"Fuck, no, she wouldn't!" Gilbert bellows as he comes around the corner wearing an apron, oven mitts, and a pirate hat he fashioned out of a newspaper. "And if Spock's appeal to your health doesn't convince your punk ass to eat something, I'll have to beat you black and blue, and then you'll just be too ugly for her to date anymore."

He pulls a spatula from his back pocket and brandishes it at Arthur.

"So suck on _that_ while I make you the most bitchin' grilled cheese you've ever had."

* * *

It comes as a surprise to no one save himself when Arthur gets promoted and his cubicle is traded for an actual office.

It's the size of a closet, barely large enough for him to stretch and remove his jacket, but still, he's not complaining (much).

He's never really been one for decorating his work space — he prefers a clean, organized work environment so he can think without being distracted — but he does buy a cheap frame from a second-hand shop and put a photo of Marie in it, placing it next to his stack of dictionaries and thesauruses.

Even on the worst of days — days he develops a thundering, splitting headache and spills his tea and curses a blue streak so profound that the people on the floor below him complain — he has only to glance over at the laughing girl carrying the ridiculously large bouquet of flowers she bought in Camden Market and it distracts him in a good way, acting as a reminder of happier times, both past and to come.

* * *

Ian has been divorced three times. He's currently with wife number four, but their future looks bleak.

Oliver beds a new lady every few days or so. His bedding of one lady in particular is why Ian's fourth marriage looks so bleak.

Owen has a child in China he hasn't told a living soul about and never sees.

And Arthur?

Arthur watches, helpless, as his usually cheerful and optimistic-to-a-fault girlfriend quietly cries on the Skype screen in front of him.

"I just really, _really_ miss you," she tells him one evening, two large tears spilling down her cheeks. "I mean — I'm glad I get to at least phone you and Skype you, but I really wish I could just sit beside you and feel your arm against my shoulder, or hold your hand." Her lip trembles. "I _hate_ being away from you."

And he may be the youngest and the smallest of the Kirkland brood, the one who was never good at anything except reading and holding his mother's hand and daydreaming and _waiting,_ but he's also the toughest of them all.

Because 28 years of waiting have all lead up to this:

"Oh, _darling,"_ he breathes, and suddenly thinks if she were here with him, he'd probably start singing the Beatles song, and she'd sing along with him. "No matter how hard it gets, you must believe this: I've never really left your side, not even for a moment. I know because — "

He clenches his fist in his lap, swallows thickly and tries not to think about their first kiss, the first time they danced together, how soft her hair is.

"Because…you've never left mine."

She stares at him for a moment before dropping her head. She rubs her eyes, wipes away the last of the tears from her cheeks. Her eyes are red and puffy when she looks back up at him, but she's smiling.

"Thanks, Shakespeare."

* * *

One week, Marie has to stay after hours and work late every night for her job. A few nights she works so much overtime that she doesn't even make dinner for herself or wash her face when she finally gets home, only kicks off her shoes and falls into bed.

That Saturday, she props her iPad up on the windowsill above her kitchen sink and talks to Arthur as she sets about cleaning a week and a half's worth of dishes.

"I'm really sorry we didn't get to talk at all this week," she says, frowning as a bit of soapy water splashes onto her t-shirt.

Arthur takes a break from paying his bills to look up at her face on his laptop.

"Darling, that's the fifth time you've apologized, when an apology wasn't even needed in the first place." He shrugs. "Things happen. Work happens."

"I know, I just feel bad." Up to her elbows in soapy water, she jerks her head a little, flicking the hair out of her eyes so she can wink at him. "How _do_ you put up with me sometimes, Mr. Kirkland?"

"Because you're the girl I'm going to marry, that's how."

She drops the mug she was washing, the displaced water soaking her shirt and her pajama bottoms.

The pencil falls from his fingers and he stares at her, his mouth hanging open in horrified surprise.

"Arthur — "

"I think I hear my mobile," he quickly says, "must be Kiku, best go answer it."

He reaches over and quickly slams his laptop shut, leaving Marie staring at an empty Skype screen.

She stands at the sink, replaying their conversation in her head over and over, until the dishwater goes cold.

* * *

"Why are you avoiding her?" Kiku asks a few days later, patiently watching as Arthur paces back and forth in the park during their lunch break. "You have never done so before."

"Because!" Arthur shouts, throwing up his arms, startling a couple of nearby squirrels. "I must have came across as the biggest idiot on the face of the planet."

Kiku tilts his head to the side, considering.

"She has more than likely seen you do idiotic things before."

"_Thanks."_

"I only mean that you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. It's natural — it should be expected — when two people know each other so well and spend so much time together, to accidentally say things without thinking. It means you are comfortable around each other."

"But of all the things I could have said — to say _that!"_ Arthur rakes a hand through his hair. "And then to just _run away,_ like a — like a scared schoolboy — "

Arthur stops pacing and digs his phone out of his pocket.

"Oh, God!" he cries, tossing the phone to Kiku. "That's her!"

Kiku catches it and calmly offers it back to Arthur.

"Answer it," he orders, lifting his eyebrows ever so slightly.

"No!"

Kiku sighs. "Why not?"

The ringtone stops, and eventually the illuminated screen fades to darkness.

"Because — because I just can't, _that's_ why," Arthur says, and starts pacing again.

"Please stop doing that," Kiku says. "You are giving me motion sickness."

Arthur throws himself on the bench beside Kiku.

"Tell me," Kiku begins after a few moments, "is she perfect?"

"Yes."

Kiku stares at his friend, his eternal poker face never wavering.

"Well," Arthur eventually amends, "no."

"They say no one is perfect."

"I…suppose not. She always leaves her clothes on the floor, when the laundry basket is a mere two steps away."

"How awful."

"She's also a ridiculously picky eater."

"Ah, and so it appears: The so-called deal-breaker."

"And she listens to _atrocious_ pop music. Honestly, I can't get her to like Pulp. But — it's _Pulp._ Who doesn't like Pulp?"

"But you still love her?"

"Of course!" Arthur cries, almost affronted. "I don't think there's anything she could ever do to make me _not_ love her."

Kiku places the phone back in Arthur's hand.

"Then it must be the same for her. You are not perfect, but she still loves you, and there's more than likely nothing you could do to make her not love you."

He opens his plastic lunch container full of green tea mochi balls and encourages Arthur to take one.

"Even if you _did_ make an awkward reference to marriage."

* * *

"She's called you _how_ many times?" Gilbert asks, incredulous, reaching across their regular booth for Arthur's mobile.

"I don't even want to know," Arthur says, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Holy shit!"

"Don't tell me."

"She's actually called you — "

"_Don't you fucking dare."_

"Honestly? It'll probably sound best if I just tell you it's a multiple of six."

Arthur groans and drops his hands to his lap, lays his forehead to rest against the table.

"No, wait — I wasn't ever any good at math. Make that a multiple of eight."

"_Please stop."_

"There, there, Romeo," Gilbert says, roughly patting the back of Arthur's head, more hurtful than comforting. "Let's get you another beer or fifty."

He pushes his own untouched beer toward Arthur. "Drink."

"_No."_

"English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?" Gilbert roars, slapping out each word on the table with his hand. "I said _drink."_

Startled, Arthur lifts his head and starts drinking the beer.

Gilbert eyes him up and down.

"I don't see what the big deal is," he finally says, fiddling with Arthur's phone, the light from the screen illuminating the sharp hollows of his face. "You like her, she puts up with you. Just marry her and give me some fucking godchildren already."

Arthur sets the beer down and gives him a displeased look. "Don't talk about your future godchildren that way."

"I ain't never gonna have any if you won't stop being a pussy and ask her!"

"I just — " Arthur sighs and slouches in his seat. "I _still_ can't believe I said that. We've never talked about it, so it must have caught her completely by surprise — I didn't give her time to prepare for that sort of question, or drop any hints so she could seriously start to consider the possibility of it. And — _yes,_ I _do_ want to marry her one day, but not tomorrow. Just…someday."

Arthur takes another long drink of his beer.

"Now she must think I'm trying to rush her into marriage. I must have sounded so creepy."

"Nah, probably no more so than usual."

"And if she thought I was really asking her, then bugger me, because that's not how I want to ask her at all!" Arthur exclaims before sighing and running a hand through his hair. "This isn't going to make a very good story for the future godchildren."

"No," Gilbert says, finally setting down Arthur's mobile, "I'll tell you what'll make a horrible story for the future godchildren. _Gather 'round, kids, all 15 of you, and let Uncle Gil tell you the story of how your loveable loser dad met the cool-ass chick who eventually became your mom — oh, wait, no. Sorry kids, I can't tell you that story, because they never got married and never had you and you don't fucking exist and I'm just a sad, creepy dude sitting on a park bench talking to stinky-ass, dopey-eyed pigeons."_

"Don't curse around the godchildren."

"The godchildren who don't exist, remember? Because you _finally_ get the girl, right? After all the years in this pub I spent listening to your whiny bitch ass cry and moan and suck Shakespeare's dick — you finally meet her. And she ain't too bad, either, 'sfar as ladies go, and for whatever reason, she seems to like you. So what if you only _accidentally_ said it? Life is short, and — "

Arthur's mobile lights up. Gilbert quickly snatches it up and begins tapping the screen.

"Hey," Arthur begins, reaching for his phone, "what are you — "

Gilbert cackles and bats his hand away.

"Gil, I _swear to God — "_

"Oh, so _now_ you want to see what she says, hmm?"

Arthur's eyes go wide.

"What are you going on about?"

Gilbert only grins.

"Gil, what did you do? You didn't — you didn't _text_ her, did you?"

"I may or may not have electronically sent her a missive — "

"Oh, God…"

" — inquiring as to whether or not she would object to you putting a baby in her already because — fuck me, man! It's about damn time, you know?"

"Oh, _God!"_

"And, _man,_ do I want a padawan I can train up in the awesome arts. I obviously failed with you."

Arthur reaches across the table and grabs Gilbert by his collar.

"I am going to _kill_ you with my bare hands, and you are not to teach my children _anything!_ Do you hear me? Not even how to tie their shoes!"

"Why don't you stop fucking around and _have_ some already," Gilbert shouts, pushing Arthur off of him, "and maybe then we can _really_ have this argument!"

They stare daggers at each other before resentfully looking away, Gilbert pouting and Arthur crossing his arms, each keenly aware they're attracting unwanted stares from the pub's other patrons.

At length, Gilbert slides Arthur's mobile to him across the table.

"She knows it's me," he explains. "I don't know all that poetry bullshit — you were always better at that. So don't be all pouty and shit."

He rises from the booth and looks down at Arthur.

"I'm gonna go take a piss, but when I come back, you had better've texted or called her. Because this is dumb as hell, and she deserves better than some punk ass _chicken shit."_

Arthur watches as Gilbert walks away, and then stares long and hard at his phone before picking it up. Taking a deep breath, he begins scrolling through his most recent messages.

— _forsooth, what light through the window breaks? it is the eastside \m/ and marie is the babe of my heart_

— _Gil, is this you?_

— _maybe_

— _Not funny. : ( I thought it was going to be Arthur._

— _hey i just texted u_

_and this is crazy_

_but hes an idiot whos totally in love with u and he just doesnt know what to do with himself or his feelings sometimes_

_so dont dump him maybe?_

— _No, I'd never dump him. : ( I just want to see him or talk to him. Please tell him not to be worried about anything._

_Is he alright?_

— _ask me again after im done kickin his ass_

* * *

Arthur decides it would be foolish to wait any longer, and because he simply can't abide foolish, _foolish_ men, he dials Marie's number and hopes he learned enough words with all that extra-curricular reading he did at uni to adequately apologize for being such a complete and total arse to her.

And as much as he knows he deserves to have her yell at him, tell him she never wants to see him again, break up with him, he honestly doesn't know if he could take it, because he's waited his _whole life_ for her, damn it, and he doesn't want to wait for anyone else, no one else is worth it, because he knows without a doubt she really is the one, but he'd wait another 28 years if that's how long it took her to forgive him —

"Arthur?"

His heart flutters at the sound of her voice, and even though he's sitting down, his legs suddenly feel weak.

"Arthur, is this you? Please tell me it's you and not Gil…"

"I'm an arse," he blurts out. "A complete, _total_ arse, but please, darling, I love you and I never, ever meant to — "

"I know you're an ass."

For a moment, Arthur's sure his heart stops beating.

"But you're _my_ ass. Or…you were. Are you still?"

"I rather think that's up to you, darling, but…you must know how I adore you. I'm hopelessly devoted to you, and I'll be your arse for as long as you'll have me."

She laughs at that.

"How long have you got, Shakespeare?"

Arthur smiles, takes a deep breath and releases it.

"Darling, please bear with me. I owe you an explanation for my behavior, but I can't rely on any dead poets for that…"

* * *

When Gilbert returns from the toilet, his and Arthur's booth is empty.

He glances around the pub, eventually spotting Arthur through one of the windows, talking outside on the patio with someone on his mobile. He rakes his hand through his hair as he talks, blushes every now and then, and smiles that stupid smile he only ever wears around Marie.

Gilbert immediately spins around, saunters up to the bar, and orders himself two congratulatory beers.

Settling back into their booth, he takes out his phone.

— _hey liz hey_

_hey liz_

_hey_

_u awake?_

_hey_

_HAY GURL HAY_

— _Omg what Gil?_

— _nothin_

— _I hate you_

— _hey i just texted u_

_and this is crazy_

_but i got him to call her so i p much saved the day and will prob get a kid named after me_

_so congratulate me maybe?_

_also u kinda owe me __10 euros cuz u said i couldn't do it_

— _Actually_

_That's really great news, I'm so glad for them!_

_Now scram, I'm trying to sleep off a headache and you're making it worse_

— _i hope ur this feisty when u use that __10 euros to buy me dinner_

— _Goodnight Gil_

— _ps i want dessert afterwards_

._  
_

_The End_

._  
_

*Author's notes: Some parts of this story are based on fact. I spent the best month of my life in England this summer, and I really did see a man on the Tube reading _50 Shades_ on his cell phone while our line was delayed, and in a pub one night I really did hear a Brit refer to American beer as "cheap piss-water." XD Though I can't for the life of me remember which evening newspaper it was that had the shout outs to attractive passengers in it that inspired this story. And, apparently, according to some totally 100% scientifically accurate survey, the sexiest people travel the Northern line.


End file.
